


Master of the Elements

by talkofsummertime



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Nightmares, everyone except holland is only mentioned, merry christmas this is the opposite of festive, more of a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkofsummertime/pseuds/talkofsummertime
Summary: “I don’t want these death pangs anymore.I don’t want to die.I don’t want to dream anymore.”A short character study on Holland as he spends the night alone with his nightmares and thoughts.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Master of the Elements

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> Upon reading this excerpt from Antonin Artaud's poem Interjection, I couldn't think of anything but how well it fits Holland. I have never tried anything like this with a poem so I hope it makes sense, enjoy! Kudos and comments are very much appreciated!

> **“I don’t want these death pangs anymore.**
> 
> **I don’t want to die.**
> 
> **I don’t want to dream anymore.”**

His mouth wide open but unable to produce a single sound, he stares at his own hands. Sticky and bright, they shine under the sickly yellow hue the moonlight casts the room, yet the moon is unable to strip them off their cruel crimson tint. He tries to get rid of some of the blood by rubbing his hands on his off-white linen trousers. Not worn for any formal occasion, but for an evening of cards and a tumbler of _kaash_ before retiring to his room and eventually to sleep. Its hungry fibers quickly start suckling on that bright liquid but it is not enough. There is too much of it.

As his knees buckle up under the pressure of his frenzy and slowly settling grief, the object of his focus momentarily shifts. Tearing his eyes from those tainted hands, he looks down at the source of the stickiness quickly invading his senses. The puddle of blood he has disrupted is of a richer hue, more alive at the expense of more dead. Quality achieved through quantity.

He wants to scream but his voice is not his to command anymore. In an attempt to get away from all this carnage, he tries to go back on his hands but it only results in little splashes of red around the puddle, it's circumference now broken.

He does not want to look ahead or see what’s in front of him. Eyes shut tight, he feels the pull this exerts on his cheeks. Then his head is abruptly tilted backwards, his Adam’s apple a compass pointing at the unadorned ceiling for a few moments and then he is pushed forward, and his hands betray him once more, instinctively clutching at something concrete.It is warm yet sticky and soft. He shudders at the contact.

“Open your eyes.” He wishes he closed his ears instead as he feels his body obey. His eyes take in the scene in silent, agonizing horror borne out the realization that something irrevocable took place, the muted green or pitch black of his eyes makes no difference in soaking up the all pervading pain.

The boy with the same shade of green for eyes, now no color or warmth left to him lies contorted, the stone he has become reduced to a mess cracked in the middle with jagged corners. The girl with the flaxen, (not golden–nothing has ever been golden, not here) slowly bleeding out of the wound in her chest, the knife cruelly torn apart to hasten her end. He cannot recognize the rest, once familiar or foreign faces but they are no longer people.His eyes travel the distance between the corpse farthest from him and the thing, the person, he is still clutching and cannot let go. The heat leaving the man’s body is almost tangible on his blood soaked, warm fingers and he just wishes to be one another in this mountain of decay as his body betray him and he finds himself once again shivering.

> **“I don’t want to be put to sleep by others,**
> 
> **Sleep is an illusion in which one continues to live.”**

There is no climax to his nightmare. There is a beginning to it somewhere, but the end is out of his grasp. The moment he wakes up and realizes he isn’t in danger, he calms down for a brief second.

Soon, it dawns on him he is trading one nightmare for another. The dream is just a medley of his memories. The way hunger subsides on its own and turns into a blunt ache, the newfound terror he feels is almost comforting in the absence of actual substance. The intensity of pain remaining same after a certain number on the scale, no matter how high it goes up: that’s what losing everything at once means, unlike this lifelong game of give and give until there is no you.

That night, it is no different. He wakes up with the sticky feeling on his skin, soaking through the night shirt he rarely wears, and by the time he manages to open his eyes, his body is already aware of the routine set in motion.

Open your eyes. _Check_. Tense up. _Check._ Look around in conditioned panic. _Check._ Do some damage control. _In Progress._ Open wounds? _No._ Searing cuts? _No._ A throbbing pain? _No._ Breathe in. _Check._ Breathe out. _Fail._ _Kajt._

Now, take in shallow breaths you fail to return back. Focus on the silence tainted by your hitched breathing. Divert your attention to your freezing limbs as the sweat starts to evaporate and heat abandons them. Let this go on.

Once he can get his breathing under control, he does not complain about the attacks or the precious little sleep he keeps losing. But a different sort of ache goes undetected as he tries to feel for anything amiss. And now its back with all the heaviness once he realizes his nightmare was nothing but a memory.

Some long minutes after, he can sit up straight. Legs dangling from the side for a brief second before his feet meet the cold marble. The sure and stealthy manner with which he gets up is a result of practice and necessity.

Just as silently, he leans over the little wooden commode on his bedside and lights the half-melted candle with a nail that has been many times fashioned as a knife and an _As Pyrato_ in defiance of the matches lying next to the pewter candle stick. He loves the freedom to use his own magic just because he chooses to, and feels like an indulgent little kid as he does so.

> **“So,**
> 
> **I am the master of the elements**
> 
> **And the one of events.”**

It is not always that Athos or Astrid leaves him be for a whole night, a whole night where neither is bored, angry or simply itching for some fun where Holland is just some play thing, serving them, amusing them, being showcased around by them.

The worst is when they invite guests. Handling Athos’ cruelty or Astrid’s apathetic taunting is easier when he can maintain an ounce of his dignity. But serving as a message and a warning to the twins’ friends and foes—both one and the same—, being their pet Antari bruises parts of him that Athos’ knives can’t carve out.

While the Antari appreciates these solitary moments he so rarely gets, he has also discovered shortly enough that he is just as capable of coming up with his own torture tactics. Having endured the first, the nightmare, now he is left with his thoughts until the crack of dawn or Athos’ call, whichever comes first.

His thoughts don’t speculate on what the future will bring, no, he doesn’t like to think of the future. It is no longer his own. He can only lay claim on his past and that he does meticulously. Reliving that turning point, one step too hasty to enter and too slow to retreat, or going even further back, searching for a reason, a mistake that led to all this, he spends the rest of the night either sitting on the edge of his bed or silently prowling the small chamber.

> **“I don’t want to be touched anymore,**
> 
> **Invaded**
> 
> **As I am by others,”**

He doesn’t mind the sparseness of his living quarters, but a weaker part of him still reminds him of his old bedchamber, not only much larger without being luxurious—luxury always made him feel ill at ease—but with a door that actually functioned as one and could be locked.

A room people would knock to enter. Staff who actually saw him with real eyes unlike the vacuous pleas for help nowadays.And a king who didn’t attempt to invade and spoil everything he owns with his piercing gaze.

 _No._ No use in thinking of dead kings and once respected magicians.

No use indeed, for this suffices to bring his thoughts back to the moment as his gaze sharpens once again, and he finds himself staring at a wall that will answer none of his questions.

> **“I cannot know what I will do tomorrow,**
> 
> **I do not want to know** ”

As the room is now washed with the cold blue light of the dying night, he wishes once again that he could have slept without dreaming, yet he knows it is a futile attempt now. The twins or someone they will send won't leave him in relatable peace for that long. Solitude, maybe, _that,_ he can keep for a bit if they send him on some errand, but peace of mind doesn’t come easily with those. He is sometimes surprised his mind is stuck on one memory, one pile of corpses and doesn’t constantly reinvent new ones. But it is no use thinking these. He knows this too.

> **“But I want to know that evil will end immediately.**
> 
> **No, it will never end either.”**

A slow shake of the head, closing of his eyes once more and a deep sound breath, and he feels like he can get up. This time, without magic, he crushes the faint flame that is becoming more useless each moment with his fingers, ignoring the faint sting that sets in a few seconds after.

This, too, like magic, makes him feel some semblance of power. If only he could crush _him_ , _them_ like that. But he is a magician reduced to a marionette, a blade sharpened to the point of perfection to pierce the hand that sharpens it, and he knows he cannot crush anything. _Not yet._ Whatever _the_ now dawning day brings, he knows it is not an end to all his suffering, the ones he inflicts and endures alike.

So, he does what he always does. Casting one last thoughtful look at the wisp of smoke left in the wake of the flame, he turns away to get ready for the inescapable repetition of yesterday.


End file.
